“And you want me to hack out tomorrow, James? No, I think not,” said Maisie.
“I can’t understand how a man who knows horses like Frankie Dobbs has a daughter who cannot ride.” James pressed his hand to his forehead in mock dismay.
“Oh, I can ride, James. I just choose not to.”
“Seems to me there are quite a few things you choose not to do,” said James.
Maisie brushed the hair from her eyes, ignoring the comment. “I think it’s time to be getting back for tea. I’m looking forward to meeting the other guests—aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” They started walking back towards the estate. “Do you think they have ginger biscuits?”
“You and your ginger biscuits!” said Maisie
Lorraine Otterburn presided over tea, making introductions and ensuring that everyone knew everyone else. The Churchills were there, though apparently leaving after supper to return to their home, Chartwell, close to the village of Westerham, in Kent. There were a couple of writers present, and some men of commerce and their wives, whom Maisie had met at other engagements on the social calendar. Though she might have seemed adept in such company, she felt like a fish who’d jumped too high in the water and landed in the wrong pond. It was the old conundrum, one she was now familiar with and which, she thought, she was still struggling to master after all this time.
She was aware that John Otterburn had cast his eyes towards her several times, and she wondered if she might be imagining his attention, especially as he seemed to be assessing the room, as if ready to change everyone around like pieces in a game of chess, just to see what might happen. But at the end of tea, Maisie felt rather flat. It was another social marathon, as far as she was concerned, one of many such races that had been run since she and James began courting, and since renovation at Ebury Place had been completed. Invitations arrived each week, though she considered it fortunate that James only ever wanted to accept two or three each month—and even that represented a leap for her. Now this one would drag on in the same way until she could speak to Otterburn alone, and she wasn’t yet sure about the optimum timing for such a confrontation. Perhaps there was no good time, and she would just have to make her move when she could. She suspected that after supper might be a good idea.
Maisie had bought a dress for the occasion. There came a point where she realized she could not keep arriving at various functions having rotated the same three evening gowns passed on to her by Priscilla. She could not bring herself to spend good money on an expensive creation, so she bought the gown of pale lilac silk at a Dickens and Jones sale, adding a pair of shoes in the same color to her discounted purchase.
She was seated between a politician and an actor, and saw that James had been seated close to both Churchill and Otterburn, as well as a man called Hugh Dowding, whose presence gave her pause. As far as she knew, he did something important with the government in connection with aircraft. Where had she heard that? She put her hand to her head, as if in doing so she might remember. Yes. That was it—James had mentioned him months ago; Stanley Baldwin had announced that “The bomber will always get through,” and James had commented that Dowding—who was Air Vice Marshal at the time—was incensed by the assertion, and considered it shortsighted. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, and was more interested in the fact that the poor man had been widowed when his son was only two years of age. She looked at the men again, and though she could see that private conversation would be prevented by the women seated between them, she was curious about the fact that they had been brought together at the same time. James smiled at her, and at once she wished they could have been neighbors, rather than again having to find common ground with people she did not know. Fortunately, a rather overdressed woman opposite had taken a shine to the actor and engaged him in loud conversation across the table. The woman seemed to have been caught in an earlier age, with all the embellishments one would have expected to see on a female guest at a dinner graced by the womanizing King Edward VII. The politician, the Member of Parliament for a Surrey constituency, talked about the area, encouraging Maisie to ride out the following day to gain a greater appreciation of the region.
Talk droned on and on around the table, and again she found the image of bees came to mind, but this time they were not going from flower to flower in search of sweet pollen; instead it was as if they were in the hive, buzzing about their business. If gossip were toil, then the guests around her were hard at work.
Course followed course, and after the savory, when footmen began bringing in port for the gentlemen, Lorraine Otterburn once again stood up to lead the women to the drawing room, so that the men could engage in talk considered too important for the ears of the gentler sex. They would be joined by the men later.
Maisie added to the conversation when she could, but found she had little to offer on the subject of Paris fashion, or the best finishing school for a daughter, or, indeed, the goings-on in the royal family and of socialites about town. However, the atmosphere changed when the overdressed woman, whose name was Cynthia Tomlinson, cut in with a topic of greater gravity.
“I really don’t see why the men are in their own world, talking—as they must be—of what’s going on in Germany, when we’re all sitting here like stuffed ducks ready for the table.”
Maisie could see that Lorraine Otterburn was a seasoned hostess, for she countered with a calm tone.
“Oh, Cynthia, we know exactly what they’re talking about, and I am sure every single one of us could hold her own, if not improve on that conversation, but we know better, don’t we? We know that whatever happens in this country as a result of anything else going on in the world, it will be women who are called to take care of matters behind the scenes. So let us not speculate, and just be confident in our ability to cope with whatever we are charged to do—and that our vote counts for something now.”
“Oh, well done, Lorrie,” said a woman with very blond hair.
“Very good, spot-on,” added one of the older women.
Maisie realized that Lorraine Otterburn was looking at her, so she nodded her accord and smiled.
Mrs. Otterburn continued to hold court. “Speaking for myself, I can only say that I would rather be among a monstrous regiment of women—and thank you, John Knox, for giving us that description, it’s quite wonderful in its way, I think—than be jawing along with men who believe they control the strings of political puppetry.”
The women applauded, and Maisie found that she, too, was clapping, though her support was for Lorraine Otterburn herself, whom she thought to be a rather more interesting woman than she had imagined.
Later, after the men had joined them for coffee and mints, Maisie touched Otterburn on the sleeve as the guests mingled.
“Might I have a word in private, Mr. Otterburn?”
“John. Do call me John, Maisie—we’re friends here. Of course, let’s go to my study. Will James come? I don’t want him to think I’m making off with his true love.”
“Not to worry—he’s deep in conversation with Mr. Churchill.”
“Right then. Follow me.”
Otterburn led Maisie up a wide staircase, then a short way along a dimly lit corridor until they reached his study. He opened the door to a room that was lined with oak panels interspersed with bookcases. A leather-inlaid desk was positioned close to a window, and there were two modern leather chairs in front of a fire. A table was surrounded by eight chairs—this was, no doubt, a room where Otterburn conducted business with men gathered at his estate on matters of commercial and political importance; the table was topped with multiple copies of the most recent Otterburn newspapers.
“Make yourself at home, Maisie.” Otterburn held out his hand towards the leather chairs. “Now then, what can I do for you?”
Maisie had formulated a script in her mind, so that she would know how best to begin, but at once the imagined dialogue failed her.
“Maisie?” John Otterburn
prompted.
She felt her breath become short and realized she was nervous. To still her mind, now racing, she placed her hand on her heart.
“I wanted to see you about a man named Eddie Pettit. I believe you know him—knew him—Mr. Otterburn. I also believe you knew Jimmy Merton, and that he was working for you when he caused the death of Mr. Pettit.”
Otterburn did not rush to defend himself. Instead, he reached across to a humidor, took out a cigar, and went through the process of clipping and lighting. Maisie stilled her breathing, and with it her heartbeat. She could play the game. In fact, she only had to bring the costers to mind, and the leather pouch filled with coins that they had tried to press upon her at their first meeting, and she knew she could stand for them against a powerful man such as John Otterburn.
“Mr. Otterburn? I am sure we cannot be too long, and I have other questions.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Otterburn looked at the smoldering end of his cigar, as if well satisfied with his choice. “Well, why don’t you tell me a bit more about this Eddie Pettit, and Jimmy Merton, and about the other items on your agenda.”
Maisie smiled. She remembered seeing a film at the picture house. It was an American western, and there was a scene where two cowboys faced off against each other, both men with their hands wide by their hips, ready to be the first to draw his gun and fire. Should she go full-bore, or attempt to blow off pieces of smugness one by one?
“Right you are. I know that Eddie Pettit was murdered. His death was not an accident, though here’s what I think—I believe he wasn’t meant to be killed. I have a feeling that he might have been warned verbally, perhaps by a groom here, that he shouldn’t snoop around. I think there might have even been some leeway, given his obvious . . . his obvious problems in understanding, which always became worse if he felt himself to be under some sort of pressure. Perhaps Jimmy Merton was supposed to deliver Eddie’s demise, or perhaps just a warning. But all the same, I believe the instruction—however it was carried out—came from you.”
Otterburn nodded. “Go on.”
Maisie felt her heart lurch. She was slipping further out of her depth, and she felt it in every fiber of her being, but she knew she was in too far to draw back.
“Eddie’s eyes saw too much. And it was discovered that he had a friend—admittedly, a rather overbearing friend, who exploited a man who had not the reasoning to see how he was being used. Eddie saw the drafts of aeroplanes—and though I am far from being an expert on aviation, I believe those drawings are of aircraft to be used in battle. They are not for pleasure or transportation, that much is clear, and there are few other reasons to design aircraft.”
Otterburn was silent. Maisie noticed he was not attending to his cigar, but staring at her, his eyes catching the flickering reflection of the fire’s flames.
“I have seen copies of the drawings. And I also know about your coterie of writers. I may not be right, but here’s what I think—I think you are, in some way or form, in the process of influencing public opinion. I believe you are working in ways invisible to most of us, to change how the population is thinking.” She paused, drawing her gaze to the fire, then back to Otterburn. “But where I am having difficulty, is that I am not sure whether you are working in the best interests of those people or not. But Eddie Pettit is a different matter. I believe he was an innocent caught up in something he had no means of comprehending. He was a man who asked no more than to bring calm to horses whenever he could—he was born among them, he understood them, and they him. And I cannot forgive his death.” She leaned back.
Otterburn nodded slowly, and had his eyes not been open, and his cigar gripped tight between his fingers, Maisie thought it would have been easy to believe him to be asleep.
“You are indeed an observant woman, Maisie. And I believe a formidable foe, if someone’s on the wrong side of you. But in this matter, what saves you from complete naïveté is that you admit you do not know whether my work is for good or evil.” He paused, looked at his cigar, which was no longer lit, and pressed it into an ashtray on the side table next to his chair; he stood up, went to a drinks tray, and poured whiskey into two crystal glasses. He returned, held one out to Maisie, and sat down again.
“I’m not going to sit here and deny your accusations as if I were a common felon, Maisie,” said Otterburn, running his hand through hair brushed back in a way that made him seem as debonair as a matinee idol. “Frankly, I have neither the time nor the temper for it. There are more serious matters to consider. Instead, I will indulge your curiosity, and I will also add that I have no compunction when it comes to sacrificing one—or two—lives to save thousands, perhaps millions. I’m sure I make myself clear, without further description.” He sighed, and Maisie thought he seemed at once tired. “Eddie Pettit should have stuck to what he knew and not gone snooping around. He may have been simple, but he knew what he was doing. And he could be very quiet. He was warned—and sympathetically, I might add—but he didn’t listen. It was therefore left to those who work for me to ensure another warning was given. That’s where it leaves my hands. I ask for a job to be done, and I expect my instructions to be carried out; I don’t expect to have to say another word about it. If I make it known that a certain activity must be stopped, then that activity had better bloody well stop. Down the chain it goes. So, my dear, don’t even consider giving your chums at Scotland Yard a call. In any case, by the time I’ve finished, I believe your perspective may have changed.”
Maisie lifted the glass to her lips and sipped, feeling the whiskey scald her tongue and catch in her throat. She took a second sip.
“For whatever reason, Jimmy Merton went too far. He’d been chosen to have a word with Eddie because he came from the same streets and was about the same age—we knew that much. Merton had worked for my company in the past, and was taken on again after his absence—and, yes, I know full well why he was absent. He was a bad seed, but he could get things done that needed to be done. I don’t know what ax he had to grind with Eddie Pettit that led to Pettit’s death, but my lawyers have made overtures to the deceased’s mother to ensure her well-being for the rest of her life. You know that already, though, don’t you? Anyway, Merton had another job—to keep organized labor out of my factory. And how I run my business is no business of yours—my employees are paid over the odds and have working conditions as good as any other factory, so we don’t have dissent, and they don’t need a union. That’s not up for discussion with the likes of you.”
Maisie felt the insult, and though the knot in her stomach almost caused her to make a snap retort, instead she gave a half smile. It would not do to be abrasive with such a powerful man, especially if she wanted to learn more. She tempered her response. “Please continue, Mr. Otterburn.”
Otterburn was silent. He drained the rest of the whiskey in his glass, went to the drinks tray, and came back with the whole decanter.
“I am going to tell you some things, and you, Miss Dobbs—and I am very aware of your current profession, by the way—you will not do so much as whisper about anything you hear in this room. Do I make myself clear?”
Maisie stared at Otterburn. “You have my word.” She sipped again from the glass of whiskey. Otterburn leaned forward and poured more of the amber liquid into her glass, once again catching the fire’s reflection. Maisie shivered, though the air in the room was warm.
“All right.” He looked at Maisie. “You have shown yourself to be an intelligent, observant woman, so I assume you’ve been paying attention to the news—ideally from my papers—and I am hoping you have seen reason for concern in developments in Germany.”
“Of course.”
“Good. That’s a start. Let’s look at a very brief list of Herr Hitler’s dubious achievements since becoming Chancellor.” Otterburn held up his right hand, raising a finger with each point made. “Germany once boasted more newspapers than any other country. Now those newspapers are being closed down one after the other. Truth
—whatever complexion the truth may have—is being suppressed. Never mind your accusation that I am a manipulator, in Germany news is stopped to prevent the people knowing what’s going on.” He paused, holding up another finger. “Next. You’ve been reading Mein Kampf, so you know that Hitler has it in for the Jews. If they don’t think they’re in trouble in Germany, then they have their heads in the futile sand of hope. Already families are getting out in droves, many leaving everything behind. It’s been on the cards for years—at least, ever since that damn book was written—so a few with a bit of foresight started transferring their valuables out of the country, so they had something if they had to run.”
Maisie nodded. She’d seen evidence of this in a previous case.
“You know what I’m talking about. That’s a help.”
She could see his anger rising.
Otterburn barely paused. “Now, let’s consider the power being given to his henchmen, his thugs. The Sturmabteilung—Storm Troopers—are murdering Socialists, Communists, and Jews. They are torturing people in dark and isolated places, and they are feeding on their own notoriety. There are believed to be tens of thousands of previously free men and women now in jails across Germany.” His eyes seemed enflamed as he spoke. “In fact, they’re so overrun with these prisoners that a compound known as a concentration camp has just been completed in Dachau, for the incarceration of people picked up by the Sturmabteilung. It will be the first of many such camps, I am sure.” Another pause, more whiskey, and Otterburn continued. “Three months. He’s been in power three months. Think what that man will do given years of dictatorship. And what are our esteemed politicians doing, both here and across the Atlantic? Nothing. They’re sitting on their hands, whistling to themselves, and hoping it will all go away—with the exception of one man who can see that it will not go away, who knows it’s going to get worse before it ever gets better, whether it takes five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years.”
Elegy for Eddie Page 26
